Home for Christmas
Read Home for Christmas Online
Authors: Stephanie Wilson
Home for Christmas is
a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of
the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entire coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by
Stephanie Wilson
All rights reserved.
Published in the
United States by Highland Park Publishing
Dear Friends,
Christmas has always been a magical
time of the year for me. It’s something, I must admit, I think about all year
long. From the time school begins, around September 1
st
, I’m
decorating the house with fall leaves, pumpkins, gourds, wreaths; irregardless
of the weather. To me, it’s the beginning of an entire season I wait all year
for.
It seems that in life, there are
always uncomfortable moments; whether they be labor pains or simply a filling
at the dentist, where we are instructed to think about something that makes you
happy. Christmas is and always has been my “think about something that makes
you happy.” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve envisioned snow or Christmas
trees or tiny white twinkling lights while undergoing some procedure. It gets
me through, however.
One of the first gifts I ever
opened at my wedding shower was a Department 56 Dickens Christmas village piece.
It was the first of many my husband and I would collect over the years. Our
teenage son is following closely with his own Williamsburg collection. This
love of Christmas runs deep in our blood.
As we enter this most wonderful
time of the year, I hope you’ll take time to enjoy every piece of it. Yes, it
can be stressful and even demanding, but there is something infinitely glorious
about it as well. It’s as if the whole world takes a pause and celebrates this
season of peace and joy and giving.
May your season be filled with
great joy and the New Year full of blessing.
Merry Christmas,
Stephanie Wilson
www.stephaniewilson.com
I want to thank my
husband and son for putting up with a wife and mother who’s Christmas in July
can begin anytime after December 25
th
. My entire family who
patiently listens to detailed conversations about the season, most anytime of
the year. Thank you also for your creative input on this book and putting up
with countless emails to that endeavor. I also want to thank Bob Davies of
Seattle’s University Presbyterian Church for his help and my friend and
neighbor, Sharon Fong, for being my driving companion on a particularly
thundering and rainy day researching details for this book and for introducing
me to Steamboat.
The moon was full, as it should be
on this night; the sky … clear; as it almost never was. Crisp, almost frigid
dry air whistled around the door as she closed it to the very last
trick-or-treater, an oversized vampire who had cleaned out the bottom of her
candy basket.
It had been a long day and she felt
it. Especially in her face, her lips actually. Her smile had been frozen in
place for hours now. Shaking her head and breathing a deep sigh of relief, she closed
her eyes briefly, reveling in the peace and quiet … and the solitude. She would
have a lot of that, solitude that is, in the coming weeks and months. Tonight,
she craved it with every fiber of her being. Tomorrow, she wasn’t so sure.
She’d never had the luxury and the verdict was still out on its desirability.
But tonight … she was tired of
smiling at well-meaning but curious neighbors she’d known much of her life;
tired of pretending all was well. Tired of false optimism. Tired of
mean-spirited innuendos guised as sympathy. Actually, just plain exhausted;
mentally and physically.
Savannah leaned against the double
mahogany doors and let her eyes roam lovingly over the interior of the only
home she’d ever known. Such solid doors, so familiar. These doors, she mused,
had been a backdrop for so many memories. They were symbolic, but very real.
They had, in fact, served as the entrance and exit to her entire life thus far.
Everything that made her who she was, had passed through these doors; a gateway
for events that brought both tremendous celebration and excruciating tragedy.
These front doors had welcomed her
home from the hospital only mere days old, they bade her farewell on her first
day of school, celebrated her first date, her first kiss, gave her courage as
she left home for university and welcomed her with open arms when she returned.
These doors were festooned and
graciously decorated during the holidays, welcoming the city’s elite for her
family’s coveted parties. It was these doors that Savannah had stood and waved
to her parents for the last time, hurrying as they embarked on a belated
anniversary trip. A trip they would never return from. A trip that had tipped
the scales of her life and her legacy like a slow moving train destined for today.
Her last day in the Wentworth family home.
She indulged the melancholy that
had threatened her mood for the last few days as she looked at the now bare
walls and rooms, the bare floor where once her mother’s invaluable antique rugs
were ever so carefully placed. The rooms echoed. They were cold, devoid of
anything even vaguely familiar. The life was gone, only whispers of memories
remained. She hoped that the experiences lived in this home,
her home
,
could in some way transfer to the new owners. That something of the life she’d
known would be indelibly embedded in the walls, recorded for all time. The love
and the joys and the triumphs and yes, even the tragedies her family had
experienced, the wisdom gained from each, could be passed to the new family to come.
As if it wouldn’t end, but live on … that life she’d once known. The life she’d
so carefully lived. The life that was now gone, it its entirety.
Taking a deep breath, she reminded
herself of the promise to stay strong, determined and resolute. Optimistic.
Loyal. Proud. But it was hard. Really, really hard. She could hear, even now,
her father’s admonishments. Some, perhaps many, would take selfish pleasure at
hearing those words in the aftermath of the demise of the Wentworth family
fortune. A wealth built by generations and lost by one. The failure weighed so
heavy on her slender shoulders. She’d given it her all, but in the end, it
hadn’t been enough.
She flipped off the overhead
Waterford chandelier and spiral staircase lights and headed back toward the
chef’s kitchen. Busyness would be her salvation – her lifeline through this. It
wouldn’t give her time for dismal thoughts to threaten that resolve. Besides,
she had much to do this evening; projects to complete before the night was
over.
Savannah was meticulous, she
couldn’t help it. She counted and tracked and journaled …
everything
.
Even meaningless things like, Halloween candy. It was her mother’s legacy she
supposed, this entertaining penchant she had. Her mother, however, had been
known to roll her eyes over the detail and dedication that drove Savannah to
record these events. All nicely and accurately recorded in the journals that
lined her bedroom shelves. Journals that finally had been electronically
converted. So much more efficient, she always said.
Dated and logged 2,100 pieces of
candy this night. It was like closing the book on history. She couldn’t imagine
ever passing out that many pieces of candy ever again. And as she rolled her
shoulders, she was pleased to realize that it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
Most, in her circumstances, would
have turned out the lights and forgotten Halloween all together. Savannah
couldn’t do that, it wasn’t in her nature. Instead, she’d spent the day
wrapping special treats for the neighbor children, candying organic apples, and
carving pumpkins that lined the massive stairs that lead to the enormous
Georgian Colonial home in one of Seattle’s oldest neighborhoods on Capitol
Hill.
Why? Well … because they’d always
done it that way. People expected it and who was she to disappoint? And at her
very core, Savannah was a traditionalist. It gave meaning to her life, it
preserved her family heritage. And this was the last holiday presence her
family would have in this home.
Back at the wraparound front porch,
Savannah gazed one last time at a fall display she was particularly proud of.
Without her usual help, she’d accomplished it all on her own. And to her eye at
least, it was beautiful and evoked everything she loved about the season. But
the night was waning and she also didn’t have time for these musings.
She carried a box of large black
plastic garbage bags and set them down at the base of the iron railings
encircling the estate property. Savannah worked quickly, knowing she would have
little patience for more curious eyes and neighborly visits. In minutes, her
work of hours filled those black bags; bulging with pumpkins, gourds,
cornstalks and fall leaves.
“Do you need any help?” said a male
voice from the sidewalk below, somewhat shadowed, and definitely unfamiliar.
Savannah gritted her teeth and took
a deep breath before once again composing her expression to something
resembling a politeness she most definitely didn’t feel. She wanted to be cool
and short, but her mother’s training was too deeply embedded to allow that
luxury, even to a most unwelcome visitor.
“That’s okay,” she said quickly.
“I’ve got it.” But as luck would have it, she was having a difficult time with
an unruly hay bale that had decided to fall apart due to last night’s rain
storm, spreading thousands of tiny little pieces of straw over the entire porch
and staircase.
“Really?” he questioned, chuckling
loud enough for her to hear, obviously enjoying her clumsiness. Taking a deep
breath she heaved a giant sigh as she realized her work had now tripled. And it
was all because of
him
. She had become clumsy because she’d been
distracted by
him
. And then he just watched! Well … to be fair, he had
offered.
Savannah turned briefly to glare at
him. It was the laugh that had done it, finally broke her disciplined resolve
to show no public emotion over the tumultuous events in her life. She threw
down the bag she’d been working with and made her way to the far side of the
porch where she’d placed a small broom.
“Truly,” she coolly huffed, turning
her back dismissively, yet all the while very much aware that he continued to
stand and watch her.
He smiled, unable to resist. A
real
smile, mind you; one that actually reached past the surface, which was rare for
Austin Douglass. There was just something about a feisty woman that always
seemed to get his attention.
He settled his hip against the iron
railing, preparing to stay awhile, and, of course, enjoy the view. He hadn’t
been around hay for a long time. The pungent scent stirring through the night
air as she forcibly swept the errant blades toward her black bags. Memories
that had been shut away for years came clearly to his mind, redolent of that
earthy smell stirred up by her sweeping. They were days long since past;
excruciatingly hard work, hot days spent in the sun, sunburns, and invariably,
the hooligan he’d been, once upon a time. Those days when teasing girls had
been the highlight of his young life. Irresistible. Oh, he’d grown out of those
days, or so he’d thought, shed the farm boy antics and cultivated a city
persona. After long days sweating and harvesting wheat, it hadn’t taken Austin
long to determine he wouldn’t spend his life in the field. And he hadn’t. He’d
made good on that promise.
Burying his hands deeper in the
pockets of his jeans to ward off the unseasonable chill of the night, his eyes
traveled back up the walkway where the woman was working industriously to
corral those pesky sticks of straw. Lingering, he continued to watch her
appreciatively for a few moments. Her slim jeans and college sweatshirt hid
nothing, which he enjoyed more appreciatively than he should.
Not uncomfortable with the silence,
Austin allowed his eyes to run over the expanse of the gorgeous, stately
colonial home. Tradition, roots … impressive. It wasn’t
him
, but that
didn’t matter. The home invoked an image of success, of breeding, of history,
permanence. Something essential in business … young business that is. The front
double doors were hand-carved works of art, accentuated by an identical set of
fall wreaths heavy with leaves, twigs, gourds and pumpkins. Very impressive
indeed, he noted again. When his eyes fell to the countless black bags lining
the enormous stairs leading up to the estate, his ill-timed but irresistible
humor returned.
“Is there something I can help you
with,” Savannah uttered irritably as she turned to confront the man, hands on
hips, who continued to stand and watch her work. To be honest, she was unnerved
and more than a little annoyed. That annoyance ratcheting up when he simply smiled.
She gritted her teeth, again.
“No,” he replied simply.
“It’s time for you to move on,” she
retorted pointing down the street. “Are you visiting someone here in the
neighborhood because I know everyone who lives here and I don’t know
you
?
And I would hate to call the police on one of my neighbor’s unsuspecting
guests,” she said with saccharine sweetness.
“Why are you putting those hay
bales in garbage sacks?” he questioned instead.
“What?” she exclaimed.
“I said,” he began patiently. “Why are
you …?”
“Why is it any of your business
where I’m putting my hay bales?”
“Listen,” Austin began again in a
more conciliatory tone as he unlatched the gate and strode purposefully toward
her. As much enjoyment as he’d had watching her annoyance, he actually needed
her help with something and knew very much that he wouldn’t get it by
continuing to pester her. “Let me help. Two hands make light work.”
“Wait,” she said becoming alarmed
and holding up a staying hand. “I didn’t catch who you are.”
“I’m a … a new neighbor. I just
recently purchased a home here.”
“Well, in that case,” she said.
“Let me give you a piece of advice. If you want to make friends in
this
neighborhood, don’t go starring at people while they’re outside working.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said,
suppressing a smile. “Although I’m not really here to make friends. I’m rarely
if ever home.”
Glancing quickly at his bare left
hand, she quickly nodded her understanding. No wife. It was then she took a
little more careful notice of the man looming over her. Broad shoulders, light
hair, undetermined eye color in the dark, expensive clothes, confident,
magnetic. Yes, he would fit in the neighborhood nicely. She was still a little
irritated at the continued humor lurking in the corner of his eyes. Her
patience with being snickered at had run out hours ago.
Being the smart girl she was, she
swallowed her pride and accepted his help. Normally, the gardener had taken
care of these kinds of outdoor displays, but she was fresh out of gardeners and
house cleaners … and really, help of any kind. And it was help she desperately
needed if she was going to leave this house in Wentworth shape before the new
owners took possession November 1
st
.
Thirty minutes later, the massive
porch was not only cleared, but swept pristinely with everything back in place.
The matching autumnal wreaths still hanging on the door. She considered
removing them but quickly decided against it. They were like a welcome gift to
the new owners. She would leave them.
Removing her gloves and shaking off
the leftover dust and debris, Savannah gingerly ran her hands down the front of
her old jeans.
“Thank you so much for helping me
with this,” she began. “I could have done it … but it would have taken me
hours,” she admitted with a wry smile.
Austin appreciated her honesty and
in fairness, her pride. That was something he understood. Pride in
accomplishment. It was that work ethic that took him from the wheat fields to
the boardroom to ownership of an international computer company, setting
records and making profit, even in a dismal economy. He was an “out of the box”
kind of guy, an innovative non traditionalist that had no patience for old
ideas and methods that were no longer effective.
“No problem,” he said, shaking hay
remnants from the lapels of his coat.
“Would you like to come in for some
hot apple cider?” she questioned before thinking better of the idea. Wishing
instantly she could retract the offer, knowing he’d obviously question the
empty rooms of the big stately home. Ingrained hospitality had forced the
invitation without forethought. She was going to have to get a hold of that
impulse.
